The TwentyNinth of October
by Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod
Summary: The day Delia was presented to the Court, in her words.


**A/N:** Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

All that happened is that I ran into a teenage September crisis. Happens to us all, once we get back to school, and now I've moved up I have less time to do everything. sigh This is an answer to the Sean Challenge number 31. Expect a deluge of TP pieces, I have been writing short-ish TP things to get my brain back into gear.

**Dedication: **To Kally, my beta, and to Cassie, my partner in crime, may she get on with that A/G piece I am supposed to be beta-ing quickly.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, o ye of too much faith and considerable stupidity.

_The Twenty-Ninth of October, in the year of 434-_

This is not what my mother would call "One of your better ideas, Delia, darling."

Nor is it something Sister Harriet would describe as "A less than contemptible proposition", although I rather doubt that Sister Harriet thought me capable of picking up a pen and putting it to paper.

In fact, this is a whim, and something that only occurred to me yesterday, despite the possible dangers of keeping such a record where my maid might discover it: after all, servants talk, and although I am tolerably satisfied by Claudine I do not trust her with the secrets that I may or may not inscribe in this book.

I, Delia of Eldorne, am keeping a diary. I am fifteen years old, from Fief Eldorne near the border between Tortall and Tyra. For five years I lived in the grey stone confines of the Mother of Mountains convent, forced to socialise with other young woman mostly of lesser birth and beauty than myself. The lessons were tedious and the teachers far too disrespectable; the building itself was unremarkable, and the weather dismal.

I enjoy, besides wit, wealth, ambition and excellent birth, considerable beauty. I am generally held to have large, emerald eyes, long black lashes, flawless skin, chestnut hair, and lips comparable to rubies. I also overheard other portions of that particular conversation which I shall not repeat due to the fact that a gently-bred lady should not even know what those words mean.

In relation to my family, I have a brother and a sister. My brother, Thomas, is only three, in truth a tiresome child, but coddled as the heir to the fief. It is my personal belief that he is a simpleton, even at his age; I do not believe he is worthy of the doting treatment he receives at my mother's hands and the favour my father shows him. My sister, Marcia, is eight years of age, whiny, pasty and sickly, is an irritation, also a favourite of my mother's, due to the fact that she knows just how to cultivate a kind disposition, which my mother certainly has. Marcia has also spent a great deal of time in Mother's company, because of the fact that she is sickly. Her only recommendation is that she has pretty eyes –although nothing in comparison to my own- and always knows what is happening in the Castle. However, this does not count for much as there is usually not much to report. Really, sometimes I think that my parents do not care for me, as wrapped up in my siblings as they are. But my father's allowance to me is very generous, and with that, I shall for the moment be content.

My current abode is in our rooms at the Palace: it is at last time for me to make my curtsey to Court, and I intend to do the thing properly.

There is no secret made of the fact that a noble daughter's duty is to marry, and marry well: this is my mission in coming to Corus. As a child of wealthy parents, a girl of good breeding, and a woman of beauty, I may look as high as I wish for my husband. Even the Prince, should he not marry abroad, is eligible. You gasp. Why not, I ask? There would be less astonishing things in the world.

Already I have met Gareth of Naxen, and I have been told to call him Gary. I am not sure whether he is my first admirer: he did whistle, rather as if I were a horse, but then again he has the same name as his father, the Prime Minister, and must wish for some differentiation. So it is perhaps not odd that he asked me to call him Gary. It is bizarre that he has the same name as the Duke, but he would be not be a bad match. Far from it.

Then, there is Alexander of Tirragen. I believe that is his name. I saw him out on the practice courts and he is undeniably good-looking- and so good with a sword! He, too, is a reasonable match, and one I daresay my mother would be greatly pleased with.

I, however, was lucky enough to catch the eye of the most handsome man at Court. Some would say Prince Jonathan is better-looking, but in my opinion he is- naive, nothing less, nothing more. I have caught a few glimpses of him, and met him in person once, and that is how he strikes me.

No, the man of whom I speak is Duke Roger of Conté. He assisted me down from my carriage, as he was in the area, shortly before I met Gareth. There is something hypnotic about those blue eyes, a certain sense of humour in the curve of his mouth, something masterful about the line of his jaw- but now I am being lyrical, which has no place in the diary of a woman of sense. His taste in clothing, however, is stellar, and worthy of remark: he wore navy blue, which suits him admirably, and that sapphire ring is a truly wonderful gem. It flashed and sparkled terrifically in the morning light. I find myself hoping that he will wear something tonight that does not clash with emerald green –I am not above wanting to dance with him, clearly- and so it is perhaps a good thing that I must begin to dress for my Court presentation, before I write something that is as foolish in me to wish to commit to paper as it is absurd.


End file.
